Saying Goodbye

“The ability to have somebody to tell your story to is so important… It says: I was here.  I may be gone tomorrow.  But you know I was here.”  Dr. Maya Angelou, talking about the importance of literacy 

In my sadness, I have a story to tell.  My thoughts may be rambling, but they are real.  I have shed quite a few tears in the last couple of days, in different moments of sadness, but one common thread seems to run through my tears… the mention and reminders of mothers.  A mother’s love is encompassing and deep, a love that can be crushing when she is gone, yet cherished and adored just the same, all swirled together at the same time.

Already feeling the loss of a great literary giant, Dr. Maya Angelou, a woman whom I liked to imagine could have easily fit into my family as my mother, my aunt, or a dear first cousin, I watched the news as Kelli Bordeaux’s mother said that final goodbye to her daughter.  She was a soldier who was killed in Fayetteville and hidden away in a shallow grave for over a year, and finally the sad news was recently revealed.  She was so pretty, seemed so full of life, and from all accounts was a fun, vibrant person.  So many people searched for her, including the man who killed her, before he finally was convinced to lead police to the grave where he had buried her.  “Why”, is still not known.  Seeing Ms. Bordeaux’s empty boots, the final roll call was given, and her mom kissed her picture goodbye; the tears flowed again as I said a prayer for her mother.  Mothers should not have to bury their daughters.  The reverse is hard enough.

Earlier in the day, Jordan texted me and broke the news that Maya Angelou had passed.  I was watching TV and doing a little midmorning snoozing after having sat up to watch both Venus and Serena lose during the early morning broadcast of the French Open.  That was a double bummer.  I woke up, stunned, and just sat there, still and quiet.  I thought about the morning that I was pulling into the parking lot at school when Tom Joyner announced that Coretta Scott King had lost her battle with her illness, cancer, if I remember correctly.  I remember sitting in the car, still and stunned, and I just had to give into the tears that began to fall.  I also started thinking about my mom and how much we both loved Maya (and Alice, and Toni…), and a quiet sadness waved over me and made my tears spill onto my cheeks. 

I always could imagine Maya Angelou as a member of my family, laughing and talking and telling stories. Ever since my mom gave me a trilogy of her books for Christmas when I was in ninth grade, back when I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings was listed in the fiction section of the library, when that book and only a few scant others were the only ones found in the "special section for Black lit", that one shelf in the back of the store or in the front to the side so they could watch you, or when the bookstores had no black authors at all--thank God for The Know Bookstore in Durham... ever since all of that, I have loved Maya Angelou. Just thinking out loud and remembering.

I also changed my profile picture briefly in honor of Maya.  I plan to change it back to the “bring back our girls” picture I have posted to represent my profile, as I have not forgotten them, and continue to await hope in vigil with their mothers and those praying across the globe for their safe return.  I am standing by my bulletin board in my old classroom, Room 507, Literature Heaven (my name for my old haunt, and also the name of a wiki page I made back then, circa 2008). That was my picture I took for a project that I did with my homeroom that year, a mini poster introducing ourselves.  When I taught, Maya Angelou was one of my teaching heroes; my other teaching hero and role model was my mother.  One of the many things that they both had in common, and I worked hard to emulate, was their superb storytelling ability.  I try to give my voice a musical cadence when I read, to really become the character of whom I am reading, to break out in song when the music is embedded within the story or just seems to enhance the story and thrill the listeners.  How could I teach Virginia Hamilton’s “The People Could Fly” without introducing the story with a verse of “I’ll Fly Away?”  Even big children love to be read to, in middle school and high school, and I learned how to teach, mesmerize, and instill a love of literature in my students from two of the best role models on the planet!  Zora would be very proud that her legacy for storytelling lives on, from the lips of the famous and the not so famous, everyday sisters, extraordinary teachers like Mary Elizabeth Mayfield Jordan, great legends like Dr. Maya Angelou, and even a good but paling in comparison  storyteller like me.

If I were still teaching, my lesson would have to include Maya in some way. I would make it work, even if I had to table part of my planned lesson. She is that important to the literary world. It would not even be a stretch to deviate. In all of her amazing ways, I know she would have fit—poetry, fiction, writing, history, memoir, informational text... my mind is popping with possibilities... autobio, end of the year road maps, life stories as you say goodbye to middle school, epitaphs, thoughts about "the hyphen", a letter to the author... Oh, how I will miss her.

My mama here on earth is gone. My hero, my shero, Dr. Maya Angelou, born Marguerite Johnson, has gone to the Great Beyond. She broke all of the fettered cages that threatened to silence her voice while on her journey through this life, a life lesson to be admired and to learn from.  Shedding a few tears right now. I will miss your sonorous, melodious voice, so beautiful, rich, and strong. Tell my Mom hello. I know you and she will be sharing poetry tonight. RIP. 

 

“Listen to yourself and in the quietude you might hear the voice of God.”  Dr. Angelou’s last tweet with the world, May 23, 20014

Storms Raging, but I’m Still Smiling

“Mom, I’m sorry for all the things I did when I was a kid.  Will you please take off the curse that my kids will be 10x’s worse than me?  I can’t take it anymore.”

What a time, what a time!  The last two weeks have been a rollercoaster ride.  Started off great, plummeted downhill with celerity, and rebounded with amazing surprises and blessings.  To put it down plainly, my youngest son is a fiery little hellion, full of intelligence, wit, and opinions, and he has been giving me a serious run for the money in the fight for maintaining my faculties.  Such behavior has created major consternation in my soul, and I have been brooding and questioning where I have gone wrong with my youngest.  I was starting to feel like I was having a “Steve Perry Save my Son” moment.  I chuckle now, but one morning I had even started looking up wilderness camps for wayward children.  (I figured, “You want to be a Joe Hardrock?  Let me show you some real ones, lol.”)  Yes, I went there.

The opening quote is from a meme making the rounds on fb recently, one that I posted on my wall.  Lately, I have been thinking about those words as I deal with my youngest son, my sweet, rebellious, smart, maleficent, funny man (at least in his mind), the mighty Jalen Christopher Bunting.  As he stands on the precipice of turning 13 this summer, it seems as though he is fighting growing up, tooth and nail.  This school year has been a rough one for him, as he has often used his powers for evil and not for good, choosing to be rebellious and hard over being smart and knowledge seeking.  His grades are good overall, but could be even better.  He could easily be in the National Jr. Honor Society, but he doesn’t want to be.  We are working on him about why, if given the opportunity, it is a good thing to participate.  As I reviewed his performance on the tests given at school to monitor levels of student learning during the year, I got a little upset at how he has chosen to travel under the radar, so to speak, in his school performance.  All of his scores, in math, reading, and science, are all consistently in the above average to high range.  In a lot of ways Jalen is just like me—smart, opinionated, creative, musical and artistic.  He gets mad easily and shoots off his mouth way too much, just like me.  But the way that he rebels against his God-given smarts really gets my goat, and is radically different from the way I am, and the way that we are trying to raise him to be the best young man he can be. 

The Mother’s Day joy and love I got from him seemed to dissipate quickly as the week began.  Monday morning began with grumbling, fussing, and moving slowly to get out of the house to the bus stop. Monday evening got even worse with homework hassles.  Tuesday and Wednesday were not that much better, and by Thursday he was as “foul as maggoty stew”, full of that snarly, surly teenaged angst that makes a mom want to eat her young.  I had spent a large part of the week worrying over him, praying over him, wondering why he seems so hell bent on straying away from all of his talents and interests, his natural smarts and creativity, and gravitating towards this unengaged, angry, isolationist always wanting to be hidden away in his room, sullen, silent, and basically on an island unto himself.  No, no, no!  All alarms and whistles were going off in my mind—what is going on?  We are losing our child.  Even Duke had begun to express concern because Jalen had even become mum during their father-son talks, which occur all of the time. 

By that Thursday evening, amidst all of the torrential rain and thunder that created huge afternoon traffic snarls, toppled mighty oaks, and caused many creeks to overflow their banks, our prayers were answered.  Duke braved the wicked elements to pick him up from his second day of after school detention (yes, he had even started to act ugly at school), and as the floodgates opened up that afternoon, so did Jalen.  I don’t know what they discussed, but when he got home he apologized for his behavior, at home and in school.  He said that he knew better than to call the girl who rudely cut in front of him in the lunch line a “gardening tool”, and that he was going to do better.  His dad gave him his phone back under the absolute condition that if there is a phone call, email, or any contact from school that is negative, then the phone is gone—forever.  No more second chances.  I relented, even though the phone was supposed to be gone until summer for the detention incident. 

But I can happily say that since then and through the writing of this blog today, Jalen has been a changed man.  He has returned to the sweet, playful, creative pre-teen that we know and love.  He is being responsible for getting his work done without incessant nagging from me, and is not talking back and mumbling ugly, inaudible thoughts under his breath.  He is doing his chores without complaint and looking forward to the return of his allowance (no chores, no pay).  He and I are even talking a little bit more, and there are a lot more “thank yous” than complaints.   He still has his moments, but who doesn’t?  I can deal with this Jalen, and I count this as a blessing.  Not a surprise mind you, because as parents, we are trying to raise and nurture a positive, happy child who will grow up to be a thoughtful, productive, positive contributor to this world, and it is our expectation that he will be reasonably good.  I am very thankful for the blessing.

Out of the blue, over the past weekend, I got the biggest thrill and surprise, one that I never imagined or had even thought of, except in passing, for a very long time.  I was scrolling my fb feed and saw a post on my wall from LaShaun Bellamy, one of my line sisters from Duke!  Talk about a shock.  As my life unfolded and I left Duke University for NC State at the end of my sophomore year, and after pledging the burning sands of Delta land, I lost touch with that part of my life while forging ahead along the new path on which my life had decided to journey.  Sometimes, in talking with my husband about some of my good old college days and antics, I have talked about my life at Duke and reminisced about my pledging days, but pretty much those times are just a part of my memory bank, a part of my life’s résumé.  After accepting her friend request, I also have found and reconnected with almost all members of our spring ’83 line (in line order): Sharon Gramby-Sobukwe, Lavern Jones, Songhi Scott, Melvia Wallace, Shirley Lawson, and Sheila Anderson.  I brought up the rear as #9, and I hope to hear in the near future from #1 in the line, Freda Vandiver.  LaShaun was the median point in our line, #5. 

I have been floating in a very happy place and thinking on some of the marvelous times that I had with these awesome women.  I have already started thinking about how I can be a part of a reunion with folks as they come through NC or hopefully with everyone next year in 2015, as ideas, plans, and talking about possible get-togethers and reunions have already started.  I even heard from and am now friends with one of my best buddies at Duke, Spurgeon James.  Now I am wondering about and am going to start looking for some of the rest of the crew—Madeline Taylor, Anise Jackson, Marilyn Sanders, Nadina Henley, and Ramona Jester.  I have been thinking about the times when we lived in Hanes Hall, Trent Hall, and Central Campus Apartments, and how we helped each other and stuck together through good times and rough times.  We were good friends, and I am sorry that I lost contact for all of these years, but I am looking forward to fun times yet to be had in this stage of our lives.

Finding my friends through fb I count as both a beautiful surprise and a bountiful blessing, that the bond we share and the friendships we made can never be broken.  Truly life is beautiful, through the good times, and also in those times when life throws you curve balls and you miss your mark.  Despite all, at the end of every raging storm is a beautiful rainbow, a promise of better times.  The song in my heart is Walter Hawkins’, “Be Grateful”, and I am grateful—for life, for friendship, for love.

“God has not promised me, sunshine.  That’s not the way it’s goin’ to be.  But a little rain, mixed with God’s sunshine, a little pain, makes me appreciate the good times…” I’m grateful, and I’m happy.  Thank you, Lord, for both.

 

 

 

Bursting Through the Clouds

I have been suffering from the doldrums that I periodically experience, those times when all I want to do is shut myself off from the world and sleep and brood.    My mood slipped into darkness, crabbiness, and lethargy, succumbing to the malaise that crept into my fingers and sagged my soul. My mind, filled with stories and beautiful memories, became a prisoner trapped away in isolation.  All I craved was sleep, and the words scripted in my mind to be penned in my writing began to shatter like broken shards, and I lay down my pen.  Who cares about your stories, those memories you find beautiful?  Who cares?  My mind screamed at me, and I raged in silent uncooperativeness and sarcasm.  No one knows what I am going through, and they don’t even care.  The things I wanted to write about—an email from Jalen’s teacher, praising the wonderful endeavor he gave to his World War I ABC book,   Jordan’s stellar performance as Inspector Goole in the VGCC spring dinner theater production of J. B. Priestley’s An Inspector Calls, even Jordan being racially profiled during a traffic stop when on his way to work…, how despite all obstacles, I feel like I am making progress—in the last couple of weeks, none of that seemed to matter.  I was just tired, grumpy, frumpy, and mad, and only wanted to be in hibernation.  Yes, the funk clouds had descended, and I gave in to their cumulonimbus charm. Eh, heh, heh, heh… Cackling, hairpins flying...  The wicked witch was sailing on her broom.

This past Friday, the revelation of why I had been feeling this way finally dawned on me.  This Sunday would be Mother’s Day, and I had been missing my mother.  I also get down like this around February 22^nd, my mother’s birthday, and around August 19^th, the day she left this world and went, as my mom had said earlier that day, “to see her Mama and Daddy and to sleep with Jesus”.  Without realizing it, I seem to fall into a blue funk during these times of the year.  Without fail or notice, every year since 2004, I become this person so not like myself.  The feeling of sadness just seems to come over me in a whisper, as stealthily as fog, my mind oblivious to the fact but my heart willing the rest of my body to ache and creep along.  I have been going through the motions of living, doing the things necessary to keep the family running smoothly, but during the day when I was alone, all I could do was sleep.  I have not been reading, and my passion for writing became stagnant and just seemed like a laborious task.  Why write if there is no joy? 

Saturday began as another lazy day.  I had intentions of getting up early, but just lay around most of the morning, wasting time.  Duke had wanted to take me to the mall to get my toes done, something I have been lamenting and wishing that I could do for some time now.  I tried to get ready, but was so unmotivated that he ended up leaving me so that he would have time to take care of what he had on his agenda.  When he finally got back home, I was up and feeling slightly better.  Finally, the fog began to lift and my day began to brighten.  While they were out, he and Jalen got me a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a pretty vase.  That made me smile.  Then Jalen went out and came back in with a big box of pretty, giant sized, juicy strawberries.  Both of those early Mother’s Day gifts made me feel special and loved, and just as unannounced as it rolled over me, the sadness and malaise seemed to fritter away.  The final leg of my journey back to my happy self came in the door about 11:45 that night—Jordan walked in the house.  That was a total surprise because I had no idea that he was coming.  He brought me a bouquet of flowers, too.

Sunday morning, Mother’s Day, was beautiful.  I had my whole family together and I was beaming.  The depression that I had been feeling for the last couple of weeks became a distant memory.  Breakfast was good and I ate all of it instead of throwing it away when Duke wasn’t looking, like I had been doing for the last two weeks.  (He was not happy when he discovered his hard labor half eaten and discarded, and threatened to not fix me anything else.)  But, after a good cup of coffee and the chatter of family filled the house, I felt better than I had in a while and even had the energy to tackle a shower, get dressed, and get out of the house.  The cards and gifts that I got for Mother’s Day were all so thoughtful and sweet, especially the handwritten notes that both Jordan and Jalen wrote to me in their cards.  Jordan said that they were following Grampa’s directives on how to address the envelopes and write the personal notes. They gave me all of the essentials that I need to help me in my quest to learn to play the guitar—an auto tuner, a music book, and a how-to video.  I have set as my goal to be able to play a recognizable tune by my birthday this summer.  I got some good chocolate from Duke, Russell Stover chocolates that I had been silently craving.  (Yes, Duke, you know me so well.)  By the time we got to the mall and I was sitting back in the chair getting my feet pampered and my back massaged, I felt quite loved and very thankful for the day and for my life.  I even got a very pretty blouse and skirt from Belk—on sale, and I had a coupon! 

Yes, I am very, very thankful for all of the blessings in my life—my children, my husband, my dad, my family and friends—I am most grateful.  When I go through my periods of sadness, memories such as the fun time I had on Sunday are what I know exist on the other side of the fog.  I have learned to be patient and to always believe in tomorrow.  Every day may not be a happy one, but it is okay.  As long as I am able to see the rising of a new day, that is the most important thing.  Plus, my feet are soft, and my toes are popping in pretty pink polish.  I am looking forward to getting my mane washed and retwisted this Friday.  I can see clearly now the rain is gone…  Life is good.  Yes!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feeling Rough, but Going On

I have to admit to feeling pretty rough today, even though I am trying so hard not to think about how bad I feel.  Life has been really busy around my house lately.  Jalen has been in project mode.  Duke has been working six days a week pretty regularly as of late, and this week his cousin Myles is in the States, so he has been visiting with him and getting home later than usual.  I have been dealing with Jalen and homework a lot one on one, and he is taking advantage of his dad being busy and is trying to rebel against mom with his little 12 year old swagger, which makes me have to bow back and remind him who is really the boss—me.  Don’t get me wrong, I can still handle him, but it does take a lot of wind out of my sails, there is no way of masking, and he tries to take advantage, as kids will do, especially willful ones like the Mighty Jalen (Okay, Mommee, quit laughing from “Beyond the Clouds”.  Yes, I know I am getting it back tenfold.).  But that’s when I do the tag team parenting thing and put him on the phone with his dad, and when Duke finishes laying down the law, even from afar, Jalen straightens up and unpuffs that little chest.  Above all of that, I think the effects of Monday’s fall and all of this torrential rain have taken their toll on my body, and I am feeling aches in muscles that I forgot that I had, lol.  I slept pretty much all day again today, falling asleep on Andy and Barney, through the midday news, waking up just in time to see Ronan Farrow and Joy Reid, and prepare for Jalen to get home from school.  I like to be up when he leaves for school, and when he gets home from school.  I think that adds to his stability as a child.  I am thankful that I thought to take an ibuprofen, and now, as I am shucking corn to make the corn pudding that Jalen asked about yesterday and that he is helping me fix up for the oven in a few minutes, I am feeling pretty good.  I am writing my blog, and Jalen has been given a half hour of play time outside under the condition that he jumps right on his homework without complaint when he comes back inside.  In this moment of quiet relaxation, my song for every occasion is Eddie Kane’s, from The Five Heartbeats, “I Feel Like Going On”.  My happy place, my spirit, is still intact, though my body admits a little defeat for wear and tear.

In the last three weeks, I have supervised and supported Jalen as he worked on projects in language arts and social studies (an ABC book on WWI), science (a 3-D animal cell), art (a recycled garment, website, business card, and portfolio of fashions), and due this Friday, math (a foldable of math terms and definitions).  He has another language arts project due in a few weeks, a comic strip based on a book he has read and not already done a project on this year.  These have all been really fantastic projects, so many opportunities for creative thinking and out of the box learning.  Perhaps you ask, “Then why am I tired in this instance”?  Being Jalen’s supervisor is tough work because he believes in the mode of doing just enough to get by, slapping down “just the facts, Jack” and he is done.  Finito, finished, it’s a wrap.  The teacher in me cannot abide such a trifling, cavalier attitude, tossing aside such smarts, creativity, and talents in such an apathetic manner.  Because if Jalen senses that kind of weakness in you, one of a low bar of expectations, that is exactly what he will give you.  His dad and I really get on him, and when we are aware, as we try always to be, of major assignments, duties, and commitments, we force the issue of giving one’s best.  Anything less is unacceptable.  That does not mean he has to be perfect, but perfection, 100% completion to the best of one’s abilities, should always be the goal.  It’s that self-motivation and drive that we want to instill in him; we will not always be here on this Earth, so as his parents it is our duty to teach him, one we take quite seriously.  It is a blessing and a curse that his mama was/is also a teacher, for I look at his projects through my teacher eyes and according to the assignment rubric.  I make sure he completes, and re-does as needed, everything he needs to do to make his project a good one, even if it means my doing a little research or reading so that I know he is shooting straight from the hip.  My son is smart, but he “uses his powers for evil and not for good”, as I tell him sometimes, jokingly facetious, but serious in intent, nonetheless.  He gets it, and even though we do willful battle to the point where I am exhausted, the resulting projects are always amazing to me. The things he comes up with when pushed to exercise his innate talents, and earn a stellar grade that he is really proud of, whether he admits it or not, are satisfying to us both.

 I am tired, yes, but I am also committed to my children and being supportive of their talents and dreams.  I am plodding along, hoping that life will be generous and give me the luxury of time to realize my dream—getting my car outfitted with hand controls so that I can be more mobile and independent.  I often lament about my inability to drive myself around, but it also hurts me that my disability affects Jalen because I can’t get around and be the football or basketball or baseball mom or karate mom or band mom (all activities Jalen is interested in) like I was with Jordan (basketball mom supreme, even down to the crazy basketball hat I made and wore to every game during his freshman high school season).  I miss having the means and the strength to be able to travel with Jalen like we did with Jordan when he played AAU basketball.  I regret that I can’t let Jalen stay after school for activities because he has no way home in a reasonable, dependable fashion.  This guilt that I feel from my living with this disability takes its toll on all of us with delicious delight.  I try to balance my fussing with him between being a parent who is trying desperately to survive and being a 12 year old kid who just wants to be like his peers.  I know he feels so much resentment that his mom is sick, and he feels left out, like he has a grandma for a mom.  And I wrestle with having the energy and the faculties to deal with all that life has given me, the good and the bad of it all.  We cannot control the hand we are dealt, only the way we play the hand.

As I reread this blog and bring it to a close, I don’t know how I jumped from Jalen’s projects to my little pity party, but it is how I feel, and all of these feelings contribute to my fatigue, which is constant and ever present.  The way I compose my mind to deal with my life is my strength, and I am learning to be true to that part of myself through my writing.  I am letting my writing lead me and comfort me, and keep me in my happy place.  I would like to end today’s blog with a little of my creative, motherly spirit, a poem to my son, and Eddie Kane’s, “I Feel Like Going On”.  Peace and love.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iw2rzc1RgVA

 

A Prayer Poem, For My Son

Hey there son, with your hard, hard, head

I pray every day you don’t end up dead.

I wonder, I wonder, what will I say,

If they book you, convict, you, and send you away.

I try every day, to show you the right way,

To read and to study, and to learn every day.

You have what it takes, as smart as a whip,

But you shun it, rebuff it, and don’t give a flip.

I flex my muscles and pump up the pace.

You glare at me defiantly, a scowl on your face.

I love you, I love you; I pray you will see,

And change your ways, for yourself, and not for me.

Acknowledge the lessons, hold fast to your dreams.

Life is not as bad as it seems.

Know your brother loves you, your mom and dad care.

Family is steadfast and true, and will always be there.

This is my prayer, my sincere wish for you.

Open your eyes, and your heart, and you’ll feel it, too.

1/26/14